


Learning Curve

by SydneyLouWho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, That's basically all this is, also this is very ambiguous and could've happened at any time post-Joffrey's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8098444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyLouWho/pseuds/SydneyLouWho
Summary: In which Jaime finds out that Tommen is more similar to him than he'd like to believe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to Natalie (moffnat) for betaing! You're the best!
> 
> (Also, this fic was inspired by one of the snippets in crossingwinter's fic "Some Kind of Family" where Jaime finds out that Tommen is dyslexic too. I fell in love with that headcanon and kind of ran with it. Oops.)

“You’re a king now, Tommen.  You _must_ learn your letters.”

Cersei’s tone is harsh, and Jaime can’t help but think that Tommen doesn’t deserve it.  Of course, Jaime Lannister isn’t quite the expert on parenting, so he could very well be wrong.

The little King seems flustered, gripping his quill with a force that whitens his knuckles and makes heavy, tilting strokes upon his parchment.  He looks up at his mother, apologies writ cleanly on his soft features.  Cersei offers no support, though, only cocking her eyebrow and letting out a frustrated little _hmph_.

“How are we to explain to the kingdom that their King cannot write, nor can he even read his correspondences?  The words are there on the page, Tommen, so just _copy them_.”

There is something unsettling in her voice, something beyond mere annoyance.  Jaime has never heard his sister speak harshly to her children, not once.  It had always seemed that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were the only ones in the entire realm immune to her sharp tongue, but he supposes that losing her eldest two children to death or to Dorne has sapped her patience.

Tommen’s face reddens, just as Joffrey’s had when he was angry, but if Jaime knows only one thing about his youngest son it’s that he lacks the rage of his brother, thank the gods.  His green eyes shine in the dim light of the solar and Jaime cannot help but pity him in his obvious struggle not to let the tears fall.  But Tommen’s eyes betray his will, allowing a single fat drop to fall from the corner of his eye and slide down his round cheek.

Tommen looks away from his mother, likely hoping that she hadn’t seen, but he has no such luck. 

Cersei storms from the solar leaving a trail of Tommen’s desperate apologies in her wake. 

Jaime watches Tommen from across the room.  It strikes him that this may be the only time they’ve been left alone together in Tommen’s entire life.   The little King stares at his parchment again, sniffling and wiping the traitorous tears from his eyes.

Jaime finds himself staring into the gilded cup he still holds rather than looking any more at the teary-eyed Tommen.  His wine ripples a bit, spreading out from the middle and lapping the sides, and he notices that his hand has been shaking.  He feels the urge to do _something_ , perhaps flee and forget that Cersei had ever left them alone, but instead he finds his legs carrying him directly toward the golden-haired boy with the watery eyes.

He reaches the edge of the table and Tommen looks up at him,   but Jaime has no idea what to do next.  His experience in handling children is scarce enough, and when they are crying? Well, Myrcella’s cloth dolls would do a better job at comforting Tommen than Jaime ever could.

When Jaime cried as a child after his mother’s death, his father had told him to grow up, because crying would never fix anything and it certainly wouldn’t bring her back.  If Tywin’s coldness had done a number on Jaime, it surely would do nothing but further upset gentle Tommen. Besides, he’d always thought Tywin’s bitter words then were nothing but hypocrisy.  He’d seen his father all but weep at the foot of his mother’s bed, hands still stained with her life’s blood when he’d thought himself alone.  If Tywin truly thought that crying was useless, a man of such stern control would never have allowed the tears to fall.

 “I—“

“Uncle Jaime?”

Jaime glances to the parchment on the table.  Tommen’s writing is scrawled about it, big jagged letters placed in a strange order like a language from across the sea.

“What’s wrong with your letters, Your Grace?”  The last part feels strange on his tongue, as if the title should not belong to him.

“I don’t know… I’m trying, truly, but the letters won’t stop dancing about the page and I can never seem to write them correctly.”

Jaime softens slightly, loosening his death’s grip on the table’s edge.  “The blasted letters curse.  I had the same problem as a child.”  He pauses, then adds quietly, “I still do sometimes.” 

Tommen’s eyes are as wide as saucers now.  “Truly, Uncle?  How did you ever get them to quit dancing?” 

Jaime thinks to the hours he spent with his father, reading the same lines over and over, trying to get them right so he could go outside and practice swordplay like the other boys his age.  And he thinks to Cersei reading long tales to him with ease, obviously pleased that she could do something that he couldn’t.   How cruel that of all the traits he could’ve passed to his son, it was the letters curse that prevailed.

“An absurd amount of practice and concentration, in truth.  Hours spent with my father reading the same passages until I’d nearly memorized them.”

Tommen shifts his gaze back down to the parchment.  “It’s so hard to concentrate after…”

“I know.  The letters get harder when I’m upset as well.”

“Joffrey never had trouble with his letters.  He learned them easily, just like Myrcella.”  He pauses, wiping another tear away with his golden sleeve.  “Joff would’ve made a better king than I will ever be.”   Jaime looks to the child and there is no sign of a jest in those pale green eyes.  Tommen truly believes his words.  If only he knew that he’s the only one to think that way.

Tommen sniffs.

“Would you like to know a secret, Your Grace?”

Tommen looks up again and nods slowly.  It strikes Jaime just how young Tommen truly is, still plump with youth yet expected to carry the weight of the realm on his shoulders.  If nothing else, he pities the boy.

“Since I lost my writing hand, I’ve had to write with the wrong hand on the rare occasions my penning is necessary.  And I’m afraid my handwriting is messier than yours.  Would you like me to show you?”

He doesn’t know why he has offered it, but Tommen nods eagerly.  Jaime steps closer to his son than he has likely ever been and grabs the quill with his left hand, which still trembles, or has started trembling again. He isn’t sure.  He hasn’t allowed anyone to watch him write since he was forced to switch hands.

He begins a sentence slowly, his letters slanted and wobbly, and the base of his hand smudges each letter a bit when he moves on to the next.

When he looks to Tommen, an unbidden heat on his cheeks, a hint of a smile has formed on his mouth  Jaime feels a surge of something, relief maybe, or even pride.  Whatever the feeling is, it warms him to the core and he feels the sudden urge to grab the little King and hug him to his chest.   But Jaime knows better.  He cannot risk touching Tommen.  For affection might lead to comfort, which leads to questions.

“Uncle, why do they call you the kingslayer?” 

Jaime starts at the name, his well-trained brain feeling attacked, before remembering that he is standing in the presence of the one person in the realm who would never wish to him harm.

“I killed a king,” he says simply, shrugging a bit.  A softer response might evoke a dangerous pity, so he holds his tongue.

“Yes, but why did you do it?”

He thinks of a million lies to tell and a single truth, but instead he settles on, “It doesn’t matter.”  Tommen’s looks wounded, bowing his head again as he seems to do when he’s upset.  The boy King may be small, but he’s clever enough to know that Jaime doesn’t wish to tell him the truth.  “You needn’t worry, though,” Jaime laughs in a feeble attempt to brighten Tommen’s spirits again.  “I have no plans to kill _you_ , Your Grace.”

Tommen jerks his head up.  “Oh no, I would never think such a thing, I just… I was only curious is all.”

He doesn’t know when he began to care so much, or why, but it lifts a weight from him to know that Tommen doesn’t fear him, despite every logical part of him saying that it would be better if he did.

Tommen looks lost in thought, his face dreamy and distant.  Jaime wonders what it would be like if he just told Tommen then, if he came clean about every sin down to the one that led to his birth.  Tommen would likely despise him, though he cannot imagine Tommen truly hating anyone.  In a different world he would spill his guts there and then, but in this one he’ll take his secrets to his grave. 

“Can you teach me, Uncle Jaime?” Tommen asks, breaking the long silence and knocking Jaime from his delusions.   “Can you show me how to make the letters stop dancing?”

Jaime steps back, prepared again to flee.  There has always been an uneasiness to being around Cersei’s children, and none of them had ever asked for his help before.   “I—“

“Uncle, _please_.  Mother doesn’t understand why I have so much trouble, but you do.  I just want to make her proud of me.  I want to learn so she won’t be angry anymore.  _Please_.”

Jaime closes his eyes, a bit dizzy, trying to think up an excuse.  But he steps forward again, ever slightly as if he hasn’t taken a step at all, and places a finger on the page.  “You see, it always helped me to keep this finger on each word, and to think only of that word as though the others haven't arrived yet.”

Tommen looks to Jaime as if he carries all the knowledge in the world, his face beaming.   If only he knew.  Tommen nods, picking up the quill once again with a steadier hand.

He takes a deep breath, staring at the page, and keeps one finger from his left hand on the dried ink at the top of the page.  His brows furrow as he studies the word, trying to memorize its sequence before the letters inevitably fly away.

Tommen presses the quill to parchment and the ink makes its way down the page, ever slowly, but forming what seems to be a letter.

 


End file.
